Page 4 of Riot's Thorn
Yet, there’s an inexplicable pull, a part of me drawn to him, even though he terrifies me.
I walk through the door he’s holding open and pretend not to notice him, matching his attitude. Goosebumps prickle down my arms as a whiff of cigarette smoke and something woodsy filters through my nose. He better not be smoking on the property, or Dad will have his head.
Once in the foyer, I can’t help but look over my shoulder. All I see is the large glass door closing. He disappeared that fast.Was he even real?I’ve always had an active imagination, thanks to my healthy obsession with books, but I’ve never seen things that aren’t there.
Shaking off the strange encounter, I find Dad in the study, looking comfortable on a dark leather sofa, his ankle resting on his knee as he scrolls through something on his iPad. He doesn’t notice my entrance until I plop dramatically down next to him. Setting the tablet down, he wraps an arm around me and draws me into his side.
“There she is. How are you, my love?”
“Hungry, so I hope dinner is ready,” I say, absorbing the comfort only a parent can give you.
“I had a feeling you would be, so I told the chef we’d be dining early tonight.”
“Chef,” I huff, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose where they always want to settle. “You’ve settled into the life of a CEO nicely.”
“You forget this is how I grew up. The only reason you didn’t was because I promised your mom you’d have a normal childhood.”
The pang of losing a mother I hardly remember hits my heart. I was four when breast cancer took her from us. Dad has never remarried and, as far as I know, hasn’t even been on a date. She was the love of his life.
“I want a normal adulthood too.”
“I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that your grandfather’s legacy will die when I do, but what do I care? I’ll be dead,” he says as he stands, his cheery tone not matching his morose statement.
“That better not be for a long, long time.” My scolding tone only has him grinning.
“Don’t worry, my love. I’m as healthy as a man my age can be.” He holds a hand out to me, and I allow him to pull me to my feet. “Now, let’s go have dinner.”
Our steps falter when his assistant approaches with a stone-cold, serious expression. “Sir, may I have a moment?”
Dad looks at me hesitantly, and I wave him off. “Go solve whatever pressing investment emergency can’t wait until after dinner. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”
“Thanks. I won’t be long.”
The pair head toward Dad’s office, talking in hushed tones while I follow my nose to the kitchen. I inhale the rich, mouth-watering scent of turmeric, cumin, garlic, and onion and know that curry is on the menu.
“Ah, there she is,” a deep voice bellows, and I meet the dark brown eyes of our chef, Wilson.
He’s been employed by the family for as long as I can remember, and he thankfully stayed on when Dad moved in. I was a young girl when I first invaded his kitchen, asking him a million questions he patiently answered. That continued through the years because dinners with my grandparents were boring, and bothering Wilson was always entertaining.
“Hey, Willy.” I smirk, knowing he hates it when I call him that.
“Not smart to mess with the man who’s making your food.”
I lift myself up onto the kitchen counter and snag a carrot from the cutting board. “You love me too much to poison me.”
“That might be true, but I’m just petty enough to load your plate with peas.” He points a knife at me, and I gasp dramatically. He and I have had a “no peas for dinner” agreement for many years, since it’s my least favorite vegetable.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Glancing around, I notice trays upon trays of hors d’oeuvres he’s preparing along with the curry. “What’s all this for?”
Wilson’s spine goes rigid, and his easy smile flattens. “Your father is having a party tonight.”
“Oh?” I say, not understanding why Dad’s parties put him in a sour mood. Come to think of it, he was always grouchy while preparing for Grandpa’s parties, too. Maybe it’s because of all the extra work. That doesn’t feel right, though; Wilson loves to cook. Even when he’s home, he’s trying new recipes. “They’re probably super boring, huh? All those rich, pompous assholes in one room.”
“First of all, don’t curse. It’s not ladylike,” he scolds, and I roll my eyes. “Second?—”
His words are cut off by what sounds like a stampede barreling through the house, gaining our attention. I jump off the counter, following Wilson to see what’s going on. At least ten guards are running toward the back of the house, guns in hand.
“What the hell?” Wilson’s tone portrays the same confusion I’m feeling. He places a hand on my shoulder as we stand there, waiting for what, I don’t know. An unsettling feeling takes up space in my gut. “Maybe we should go back to the kitchen.”
